A Calradian Chronicle
by Happy Emu
Summary: The return of a young adventurer from distant lands spells great changes for the fractured land of Calradia. Finding his own mission derailed, Arken finds himself caught up in the twisted politics of Calradian nobility, not knowing his actions will change the continent for generations to come.


A Calradian Chronicle

Act I: Homecoming

Arken stood at the edge of the tree line. With the woods to his back, the majesty of the sprawling city lay before him. It had been years since he had last laid eyes on Praven, and in that time the monstrous metropolis had grown further still. Outside the protection of the city walls, many farms had sprung up, hoping to capitalise on the fertile soil the city had been established on. While the odd farm had grape vines and vast wheat fields, it was mostly a scattered variety of produce being grown throughout the valley. The one thing all had in common however, was a cow pen somewhere in the property. These majestic beasts were essential in the creation of the capital's number one export: Butter. Any form of cow related product was available in the city, and it had truly become a staple of every meal in one form or the other.

Beyond the gated horizon in the distance, lay the city proper. Thatch and wooden roofs peaked over the stone battlements where most of the city's inhabitants resided. The class divide was apparent as the quality of the sheltering improved with the elevation; the closer to the top of the incline that the city was built upon, the more extravagant and elegant the houses were. Classic Swadian architecture was apparent throughout the city, in every shop front and street, sharp corners and gothic statues adorning every spare space. Arken took a second to take in the familiar sights, letting the feeling of euphoria overtake him.

With excitement, the young man mounted his steed. Gently squeezing his thighs around the horse, he put the animal into a mild gallop, eager to enter the city. It had been slow going for the last few days, but the nostalgia spurred him onwards now. Closing the distance as he passed by the farmlands, his eyes were transfixed on the citadel that lay at the very top of Praven. Its tall spire was silhouetted by the setting sun, casting the ivory façade in a golden glow. There, his fate awaited.

* * *

By the time he had made it past the city walls the sun had already set, leaving the sky dark and the city illuminated by torchlight. With the rising moon, the citadel had since been closed to visitors. The inhabitants of which, would be off doing what nobles did; indulge in excess of whatever vice was available or in fashion. Arken mulled over the possibility of sneaking into the fortress, but decided against possibly spending a night in the dungeons waiting for an audience to hear his pleas. Having already waited much of his youth, the young adult knew that a few hours was nothing in comparison to the many moons spent longing. With that, his journey today had come to an end, and Arken was in need of a place to rest his weary feet. Where better he thought, than the Old Hackney Inn?

Like much of the rest of the city, it had been many harvests since he'd laid eyes on it. Arken however, could still remember numerous games of dice and many a tankard emptied at the tavern with his friends. The memories brought a smile onto his face as he trotted through the emptying streets. Most honest folk had begun to return home, eager to rest after a day of work, and only the young and the delinquent remained. Catching the odd glance, Arken continued on his way towards the frequent haunt of his youth, memory guiding him.

After a quarter of an hour, he arrived at the place. Unable to contain his shock, Arken's brow raised in confusion at the sight that lay before him. The fine establishment had not aged well; once pristinely white washed walls had faded into a state of dire discoloration, crumbling stone was all that remained of the beautiful statues. The aged façade rose intimidatingly upwards, a grim welcome to all that would enter. The thatch roof cast eerie shadows on the three-story building, its rickety exterior threatening to keel over at any time. Save the sign on the front of the building, Arken would have failed to recognize the once popular tavern from memory.

With few alternatives and mild trepidation, Arken dismounted his steed. Guiding the horse to the stable attached to the premise, he unsaddled the beast and lay it hay for the night. Tired as he might have been, the horse had carried him far and deserved a break as much as he did. Giving the steed a pat on its back, he turned to the door of the inn.

To his surprise, Arken was mistaken.

He had imagined that the exterior of the building was the most rundown part of the establishment, and on that account, he had been completely wrong. The interior was dimly lit with candles, while a flickering fire lay in it's death throes at the fireplace. The first thing he'd noticed when he entered was the smell. Noticed was perhaps the wrong word, it would be more appropriate to say assaulted by. The stench of ale and sweat assailed Arken's nose and the cause was apparent. The few patrons occupying tables were all either drunk or in the process of making themselves so. The sight in combination with smell was a far cry from the days of Arken's youth, feeling a tinge of sadness at the desecration of that memory, he turned to leave.

Before he could beat a hasty retreat back the way he had entered, a voice called out from behind.

"Ya lookin for a drink? Maybe a room? Perhaps something else, whatever it is, ol' man Jenkins can arrange it 'ere"

Looking back over his shoulder, Arken replied.

"No Sir, I'm looking for accommodation for the night"

Gesturing for the young man to approach the bar, the sleazy looking innkeeper pointed out the vacant seat in front of him. Navigating the tables of drunks and the like, Arken made it to the grimy bar top despite the obstacles in front of him.

"Not from round these parts are ye? Don't worry, we don't discriminate round 'ere. A room'll cost ya 2 denars a night, three if ye want one with a fire."

With a considered look, Arken weighted his choices. Obviously, the walking pile of grease that stood smiling in front of him was attempting to con him, but as prices went this late into the night, 3 denars for a room with heating was acceptable. Mulling over the price while taking his diminishing coin into consideration, the experienced master of the house could tell when his prey was in reach

"I'll even throw in dinner and a tankard of ale"

Pointing at a delicious smelling pot of questionable ingredients, the growl of Arken's stomach made the decision for him.

"Fine. But she serves it"

* * *

Two tables from where the conversation had been taking place, a bar maid was being harassed by three drunk and extremely grabby men. She had been shrugging off their advances the entire night, but with the most recent delivery of their ale, she had made the mistake of leaning in too far. While a stiff slap to her rear shocked her, another hand grabbed her by the forearm and forced her onto the filthy lap of one of the men. The poor woman was busy fending off the salacious attentions of the surrounding men when the newcomer to the bar had struck his bargain.

"Get yer filthy 'ands of her Gus. She 'as a job to do."

Turning around to see the livid proprietor call for his bar maid, the offending hands lost grip for just long enough to allow the relieved woman to break free.

"Cerise come 'ere and serve this fine gentleman. Don't forget to put on a smile or so 'elp me god you're not 'etting paid today again"

Settling himself down into a secluded table, Arken took stock of his belongings while waiting for his meal to arrive. Removing a small coin pouch with his remaining money, he removed 3 denars and placed them on the table. The pouch had been far heftier before he had left Pendor, but the journey back to his homeland had not been cheap. He had been able to bring very little with him, save the belongings he carried on his back, and what little coin left after paying for the voyage had gone to purchasing a mount. His most prized possession was slung on his waist; a steel broadsword. Well balanced, slightly longer than the average and masterfully crafter, it was truly a weapon to behold. The carefully adorned crest on its pommel and gold trimming across the handguard made the sword truly priceless. The weight in his hands had served him well through many battles and had been the end of many more a foe, gazing at it Arken thought about the harsh lessons battle had taught him.

Busy reminiscing, the weary traveller almost failed to notice the barmaid clutching a tray while skilfully navigating the tavern towards him. Skilfully sidestepping both fallen barstool and patron alike, Cerise made her way towards the secluded table. Arriving at her destination, she placed the lukewarm stew and bread in front of the hungry adventurer. Besides the two staples, there was the customary butter at the side, a gentle reminder that they were in Swadian land. Even in the depths of the city, butter was still expected with each meal, even if only a humble portion like such. Collecting his coin, she gave Arken a gentle smile and asked,

"Will that be all Ser?"

Eager for some conversation, Arken jumped at the chance.

"Cerise was it? The meal would be much livelier if you would join me for it. It would be a shame to enjoy my first hot meal in Calradia alone."

With an apologetic look on her face, the young woman gestured at the upturned tables and spilled ale mugs.

"I'm afraid I cannot Ser, I have other duties to attend to."

Gathering the tray, she spun around to leave. A few steps away, she stopped herself short.

"Perhaps I may bring your belongings to your room first, Ser? Then I may properly thank you for your help earlier?"

A broad smirk found itself on Arken's face as realisation dawned upon him. Giving his agreement, he handed her the satchel containing his belongings. With the utmost care, she took the luggage with the utmost care, and gave him a kiss on the cheek as she leaned over. Turning around, she walked quickly back the way she came, bolting up the stairs to the lodging rooms two at a time, raven hair fluttering out of view.

Finishing the heavily over seasoned soup with gusto, Arken quickly cleaned his mouth on his sleeve and prepared to rendezvous with the buxom barmaid. In his excitement, he had however lost track of his surroundings, and had been blissfully unaware of the festering anger of the three ruffians whose prize he had inadvertently stolen.

"Oi fuck face!"

Turning about, the young adventurer quickly realised the trouble he had found himself. Standing a short distance from Arken, the belligerent drunk was backed up by his equally inebriated companions. Continuing his verbal assault, the slurred words echoed across the tavern

"You fucking foreigners think you can come 'ere, and take what you want. Well you're _fucking_ wrong boy. Me and me boys are gonna show you a calradic welcome up *hick* your arse"

Knowing these men were far beyond reason, sober or otherwise, Arken prepared to defend himself. Letting out a quiet sigh, he resigned himself to fate as the most logical course of action was apparent; they were armed and he was armed. This could only end one way.

Seeing their hands reach for their blades, the experienced fighter prepared to draw his own decorated sword. Right before steel could be freed from scabbard however, a familiar gruff voice echoed across the tavern.

"Not in my fucking house you're not. If you cunts want to kill each other, do it outside and make it someone else's problem. I ain't cleaning nothin'"

Not wanting to upset the owner of their favourite watering hole, the three older men spat threats at Arken as they strode towards the door. Similarly, not wanting to be out of lodging, Arken himself adjusted his gloves and left his cloak at his seat; he would retrieve it after this had been dealt with.

Pausing for a second, the lone swordsman spoke,

"Pay your bill before you leave."

Three scowling faces turned to look back.

"And why the fuck would that be?"

With steel in his voice, Arken replied.

"You might not be able to later."

* * *

Gus had been having a great day.

Earlier that morning, Bennet had spotted foolish lone merchant plying his trade along the forested roads outside of Praven. Together, they had woken Rick and the trio proceeded to ambush and murder the poor trader. After selling off their ill-gotten gains, they'd briefly considered returning to their hideout before deciding that celebration was in order. Naturally, they had returned to their favourite haunt, The Ol' Hackney.

A couple of dozen tankards of ale later, Gus was about to get a hand full of barmaid when that blonde cunt had ruined his chances. Watching the cute wench flirt with the younger man had made him furious, and the only way to make up for lost time was to rob that dumb fucker. Observing the serving girl leave, the three men had discussed the rather straightforward plan: Stab the distracted man full of holes and leave him to bleed to death while collecting his coin. Gus of course added the bonus of finding the barmaid upstairs and finishing what they had started.

Now, that lucky shit had narrowly avoided being murdered in his seat, he had the gall to make such a loaded declaration. Removing a few denars from his own coin pouch, Gus wondered what exactly gave the lone man such confidence. Shrugging, he knew what his boys were capable of. The three men may not have been the best fencers, but no amount of skill in the world would make a difference with a knife to your back.

Tossing the coins on the floor, the three men made their way out of the dimly lit tavern.

A few steps out the doorway, Gus was about to tell his lackeys to get into position, when he heard a sound that stood the hairs of his neck on end – the rasp of a blade sliding from its scabbard. Looking back to identify the source of the sound, he turned just in time to watch two feet of steel burst forth from Ricky's chest. The unfortunate man turned to look at Gus, a confused look on his face. The blade withdrew swiftly as the young man behind his friend kicked the inert body to the flagstones of the pavement.

Recovering from the shock first, Bennet drew his weapon and lunged towards their assailant. Still fumbling with his weapon in its scabbard, Gus could only watch as the still drunk combatant executed a poorly coordinated overhead strike. 'From the Sky', the stroke was called in some fencing manuals. Accurate in this case because it seemed like gravity was doing more work than Bennet himself, his mind still a blur from the copious amount of alcohol consumed.

With a deft flick of his wrist, the blonde swordsman parried the clumsy swing. In the same motion, he dipped his own blade while dropping his weight, and with a swift upwards cut delivered a decisive wound to Bennet's forearm. Dropping his blade, the wounded man clutched his hand in agony, his scream echoing across the narrow street. Backpedalling, his cautious retreat turned into a rout as the rash assailant turned tail and ran down the dark street.

Finally able to free the weapon from its prison, Gus kept its point towards the warrior who had just taken both his companions out of the fight. Now feeling very alone and clearly outmatched, he swallowed the lump in his throat and prepared for the inevitable.

" 'elp me Gus, It 'erts!"

Rick made a pitiful plea as he grabbed at the gaping wound in his chest. Arken cast the dying man a forlorn gaze but kept his broadsword trained on his last opponent. While he felt some pang of guilt over having thrust his sword through the back of an enemy, he knew he was outnumbered and they would not hesitate to do the same. Honour belonged to the victor, not the avenged. Despite his youth, Arken had seen far too many knights charge headlong into waiting pikes in the name of chivalry, and died in agony clutching to that ideal.

"Your friend is hurt, lay down your arms and you may tend to him. On that you have my word."

Shaking violently, Gus barely managed to register Arken's offer. The tip of his weapon vibrating towards the merciful stranger, the brigand ignored his dying friend. With a roar, he drew his sword back,

"I will drink from your skull!"

* * *

A clash of steel resounded across the empty street. Surrounding homes and stables lay silent as the pair engaged in a macabre dance of death. Impact after impact shook Arken as he gracefully defended the wild flurry of strikes from his opponent.

Gus was not used to his prey fighting back, much less with superior swordsmanship. Each barbaric thrust and cleave was met by an elegant parry, and every attempt to gain ground was denied by experienced footwork. Trying every dirty trick in the book, Gus still failed to gain any momentum in his attacks.

With each successive parry, the older man became more winded. It was apparent to both parties that Gus was on his last legs despite the fight having been in its infancy. With each successive clash, the ferocity increased as the desperate man began to throw wild and random slashes towards his enemy.

In a desperate for survival, and amidst his flurry of drunken blows, Gus withdrew a dagger from the recesses of his jerkin. With the last vestiges of his strength, he launched a final assault with the uneven twins, slashing a tearing at whatever stood in front of him.

The hidden weapon caught Arken off guard.

While he had been expecting some form of desperate counter play, the dagger had slipped his attention, concealed in the darkness of night. If not for the glint of the short blade in the moonlight, Arken might not have anticipated the sudden strike at all. Parrying the dagger at the last second, he found himself on the backfoot for this first time in the fight. The belligerent drunkard was fighting with reckless abandon, swinging wildly with dire disregard for his own life. While this sudden burst of energy had in no way increased his proficiency, it made the chances of an exchange where both parties would be mortally wounded more likely.

And it would not serve Arken if both men met their ends in each other.

Defending blow after blow, the young man looked for an opening in the tempest of steel.

In the mad exchange of blows, Gus had failed to take into account his lack of stamina in executing his strikes. Exhaustion taking its toll, he began to fall into a predictable pattern. With each parry, his attacks began to slow further still and fall short entirely, and all he had now was a prayer that the most experienced fencer would somehow trip on horse shit and impale himself on Gus' sword.

A prayer that would not be answered.

Sensing opportunity in an oncoming right thrust, Arken deftly sidestepped the blow, and in a single fluid motion used the flat of his blade to push the miscreant's own downwards. The momentum of the attack carried Gus' weight with it, and now without his sword to defend him, his head was sorely exposed. The large man was helpless as his exposed neck found itself on Arken's finely crafted weapon, as the steel sliced cleanly through skin and artery with ease, leaving a warm gush pouring from the mortal wound.

The last thing Gus saw before his miserable existence came to an end was the red flagstone painted with his lifeblood.

With a loud thud, the corpse impacted the floor, signifying the end of the duel.

The brutal display of swordsmanship had not been without notice.

Rapid marching as heavy boots thumping the cobble pavement could be heard growing nearer. Recognizing the sound of soldiers anywhere, Arken knew what was about to round the dark corner. Calmly cleaning his tainted blade on his fallen opponent's jerkin, he sheathed his sword before the guard arrived.

A half dozen footmen armed with quarterstaffs rounded the corner, led by a single sergeant equipped with the customary Morningstar. The red clad soldiers maneuvered quickly to surround the lone survivor.

"Throw down your weapon and extend your arms. You've done enough killing for today. Come quietly or struggle, either way the hangman's noose will have you."

Arken ignored the sergeant's decree and instead swiftly removed his riding gloves. The gentle motion drew flinches from the surrounding footmen, none accustomed to seeing a man so calm while entirely surrounded.

Presenting his signet ring to the commander of the guardsmen, Arken silently mused how he had managed to find a way to the citadel after all.

"Take me to the Lord Marshal. Take me to my Father."


End file.
